Page 31 of Last Christmas in London

Since she was in such a good mood, I placed down the papers with her schedule for the rest of the week, thinking now was as good as any time to tell her about Alison.

‘I have some good news for you,’ I said, and she smiled, leaning forward a little. ‘I think I’ve found your new assistant.’

Pim rolled her eyes and sat back, adjusting her hair and replacing her compact in her clutch with a sharp snap of the clasp. I’d hoped for curiosity, maybe even relief, but instead it felt like I’d said something mildly tedious rather than quietly life-altering.

‘Her name is Alison, and I would love to add a quick meeting into your schedule for next week…’

‘Oh, Evie, why don’t you have an evening off tonight?’

‘Sorry?’

I kept my tone light, professional, even as something in my chest tightened. Pim’s refusal to engage wasn’t new, but moments like this made leaving feel harder, not easier. It was difficult to step away from someone who refused to acknowledge the gap you were about to leave behind.

‘No work. Let’s just catch up. You haven’t told me anything of what you’ve been doing lately.’

‘Well, I was looking for my replacement,’ I said, trying hard not to sound sarcastic or bitter.

‘I meant in your personal life. Has it been nice being home?’

I didn’t say that I didn’t have a home, as that felt a bit too dramatic – even for Pim; instead I nodded. ‘It’s been wonderful being back in London and seeing friends.’ And meeting buskers.

‘Good! Now what have you been doing? Going to the theatre? Eating out? Going to parties?’

She had never shown this much interest in my personal life before but I thought, why not embrace it? I placed the papers back into my bag on the floor and went to speak, when suddenly she interrupted.

‘Oh, speaking of eating out… guess who I saw at The Wolseley the other night?’

Oh, right. I guess we’re not going to talk about me then after all.

I took a sip of my wine and tried not to let my frustration show about being swindled out of discussing my replacement… again. ‘Who? Someone you hate, I suppose,’ I guessed, because I knew Pim well enough to sense when a villain was about to be introduced.

‘Michael Holland! That slimy, two-faced, smug little—’ She exhaled through her nose dramatically. ‘He’s like a bad penny. Ever since we ran into him at the BBC, he just keeps showing up.’ I failed to recognise the coincidence, given that they were both circling the drain of the TV industry these days, so no doubt both of them ran in the same circles. ‘He’s been swanning around with his posh toffs lot, acting like he’s some kind of broadcasting legend just because he’s managed to churn out a few documentaries.’

‘They’ve done quite well, though, haven’t they?’ I ventured cautiously. ‘People seem to like them.’ The ratings were mixed but the reviews were good.

‘People like Pot Noodles too, Evie. It doesn’t mean they’re any good for you.’ Pim waved her hand dismissively. ‘He’s such a fraud. Smiling at me like we’re old friends when we’re in public. I wanted to knock his block off, but the weight of it hitting the floor would probably make the earth implode.’

‘Did you say anything to him?’ My heart hammered at the drama that could ensue if her feelings towards this wannabe national treasure ever got out.

Pim’s eyes glinted with mischief. ‘Oh, I was the picture of charm. I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Michael, how wonderful to see you again! I had no idea the BBC let interns dine at The Wolseley.” Then I turned back to my dessert like he didn’t exist.’

I rolled my lips together, trying not to laugh. ‘That’s quite, erm, petty,’ I dared to say, though truly I was delighted. I didn’t like the man either.

‘No.’ She swirled her wine glass again with a satisfied smile. ‘That is justice.’

She took a long, triumphant sip, clearly pleased with herself. ‘Honestly, the nerve of him. Smarming his way through the industry, acting like he’s some authority just because he does documentaries.’ Her voice became long and drawn out, mimicking an old Etonian’s.

Ah, I thought, she wants to do documentaries but now they’re tainted because Michael Holland does them too. There goes Pim’s dream of being the next Mary Beard.

‘Well, I suppose he does have a certain… presence,’ I admitted. ‘People find him charismatic.’

‘Oh, he’s good-looking,’ Pim agreed begrudgingly. ‘A right silver fox. And single, to boot. But that’s the most dangerous type, isn’t it? The ones who get away with murder just because they’ve got a nice set of teeth and a decent jawline.’ She stabbed at her fish, clearly imagining it was Michael’s face.

I smirked. ‘It sounds like he’s got under your skin.’

‘Not at all.’ Pim sniffed, lifting her chin. ‘I’m just warning you, Evie. Watch out for people like him. They pretend to be charming, but they’re as slippery as snakes. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

‘Duly noted,’ I said, making a mental note to avoid watching any Michael Holland documentaries while in Pim’s employ from now on.